


If You're So Bad, Then What Does That Make Me?

by glassclosetcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon compliant to 10x21, Charlie Lives, Coming Out, Country Western Bar, Crack, Dean is dumb about sexual orientation, Demisexual Castiel, Episode s10e23 Coda, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel, Jealous Dean, M/M, No really this is trope-tastic, Oblivious Dean, Post-Episode: s10e23 Brother's Keeper, Post-Mark of Cain, Probable Abuse of Italics, Sam Ships It, Season/Series 10 Spoilers, grace cure, line dancing, lots of tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4060036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassclosetcastiel/pseuds/glassclosetcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes a long swig of his beer and looks out at the dance floor, finding Cas taking turns dancing with the woman and her two friends. “What is it?” he asks, dragging his eyes away.</p>
<p>“You remember what we told you about the three ingredients for the cure?” Sam asks.</p>
<p>Dean squints, replying, “Kind of? I mean, I remember what you said about the first two ingredients. No one ever gave me a straight answer about the third.”</p>
<p>Sam drains the rest of his beer and begins, “Yeah, about that."</p>
<p>--</p>
<p>After Cas sacrifices his grace to cure the Mark, team free will decides to head south for the summer. A salt and burn lands them in Atlanta, Georgia, and after finding an interesting yelp review, Sammy leads them to the Wild Horse Saloon, a Country Western Pub.</p>
<p>When a buxom woman in a pink cowboy hat asks Cas to dance, Dean tries to reign in his jealousy and fails. Miserably. Ever fed up with their bullshit, Sam decides to tell Dean the real reason Castiel gave his grace for Dean.</p>
<p>Warnings for overuse of tropes, passive aggressive Deanie Beanie, lyrics that fit the situation too well, line dancing, and mildly drunk human Cas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're So Bad, Then What Does That Make Me?

**Author's Note:**

> This is vaguely canon-divergent after 10x20, wherein we had grace cure and Charlie lives because reasons.
> 
> It all started when I thought to myself, _how cute would it be if someone tried to get Cas to line dance?_ 7,000 words later and here we are.
> 
> This fic is chock full of some of my favourite tropes. If you're expecting a groundbreaking piece of fiction, perhaps check out some of my bookmarks instead. This is just a bit of self-indulgent fluff.
> 
> I relied heavily upon Supernatural's tendency to match in-canon music to the mood or situation. Perhaps I should say that I abused it. In any case, the soundtrack can be found at the end. I highly recommend listening, even if you're not a fan of country music. Title is from the song _Four Horsemen_ , which is just made for Supernatural. Seriously. Listen to it if you get the chance.
> 
> Many thanks, as always, to Becca for your creative direction and advice, and for putting up with my whining. I owe you lots of things. I'll pay you in sunshine and fun adventures come January.
> 
> Thanks also to Ash, who helped me immensely with the structure of this story, and to Tennyo, Izzy and Elizabeth for beta-ing.
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s taken some getting used to, but the Winchesters have settled into things. Their lives have returned to a normal pace, but compared to the events of the past few years, everything feels unimaginably slow. But it’s a comfortable, easy slowness. Dean feels like he’s twenty-six years old again— like he’s returned to his roots. The Winchesters really have come full circle: in place of sacrificing and threatening, murdering and lying, they’re saving people and hunting things again. _The family business_. The family is even back to three members— well, _four_ , technically, though Charlie is staying well clear of the hunting part after her close call with the Stynes. The other three agree that it’s for the best.

Life is— for the most part— good. Cas is human, but he’s managing it well, and Sam has stopped skirting around Dean like a kicked puppy. But they’re still repairing everything they’ve broken, and that includes setting some things right amongst themselves. They’ve agreed to completely cease all lying, underhandedness, and deceit; no longer will they go behind one another’s backs, forging alliances and making deals for well-intentioned but ill-advised purposes. Basically, they’re working on their communication skills. So far, it’s going well. Dean is learning to express himself. A little bit.

They’ve been working their way farther and farther southeast, circling their way down to warmer climes and a better atmosphere. Summer is here, and Dean is itching for that beach vacation, even if he knows it might never happen. Cas said he hasn’t been to a beach in half a billion years, and Dean didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So he packed one bag for Cas and one for himself, told Sammy to get his shit together, and they hit the road.

There’s a simple salt and burn on the outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia. They’ve only been in the state for six hours by the time they’ve done the research, interviewed the witnesses, and cracked the case. They track the spirit’s bones down to an abandoned grain silo and send it on to the great beyond before the sun has even set, tipping off the local law enforcement about the whereabouts of a certain missing person whose remains might still be smoldering over at the old Ashton farm.

They reach the motel at 8:15, dirty and sore and groaning in hunger. With adrenaline still coursing through their veins, they agree to freshen up and head out on the town. Dean points the Impala East toward the heart of Atlanta while Sam browses Yelp to find their destination. “Wild Horse Saloon sounds interesting,” Sam remarks, thumbing through the restaurants on his phone. “It’s a, um. A country western pub?”

Dean snorts. “They got food?”

Sam scrolls a bit, reading through their information. “Yeah. Full menu. Says they’ve got half-price appetizers and live music on Thursdays, too.”

“You had me at half-price appetizers,” Dean says, stomach grumbling in anticipation. He shoots a look into the rear view, catching Cas already looking at him. “Sound good to you, man?” he asks.

“Yes,” Cas replies, smiling a bit. “I’ve never heard music being performed live before.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, but he returns his gaze to the road. It might be well past rush hour, but Atlanta traffic has no time limit. “Never?”

“Well, that’s an exaggeration,” Castiel clarifies. “I have been witness to many a religious musical ritual, but I feel that the experience would be somewhat different if the music were being played for entertainment rather than for worship.”

“Yeah,” Sam laughs. “That’s for sure.”

He directs Dean a little further into the city, and about fifteen minutes later they arrive at a building that sticks out like a sore thumb among the utilitarian concrete and cinder block of the surrounding structures. Its wood paneling looks to be taken from several other buildings and patched together, giving it a haphazard, rustic look. Neon signs proclaim **WILD HORSE SALOON** and **LIVE MUSIC** and **Y’ALL COME EAT**. Dean pulls his green canvas jacket off and tosses it into the Impala, laughing to himself. Sam and Cas seem equally amused.

The music thrums out of the building— a lively blend of country and punk. Sam reaches the door first and holds it open as Dean walks inside, trailed closely by Cas. The interior is similar to the outside, with shabby-chic wooden paneling, casually mismatched furniture, and neon signs on every wall. The effect should be overwhelming, but it goes together surprisingly well. A beautiful, full-figured blonde woman and an odd assortment of male musicians crowd together on a small stage at the back of the room, clad in everything from a Green Lantern t-shirt and tattoos to a nice silk button-down and suspenders. Their genre-nonspecific music suits the place perfectly.

The hostess seats them at a high-top table on the edge of the room, skirting an open area that’s been converted into a makeshift dancefloor. Dean doesn’t miss the way Castiel’s eyes widen when he sees the couples spinning together, figuring the guy’s probably never seen dancing for the sake of dancing, either.

“This is kinda awesome, huh?” Dean asks, voice raised above the music. Sam is grinning from ear to ear. Cas nods enthusiastically, taking in the scope of the place.

A waiter arrives and takes their drink order. Dean orders a round of beers for all of them, calling the guy back after a second to throw in an order of fried pickles, potato skins, and two baskets of onion rings. He responds to the look Sam gives him by shrugging and saying, “What? They’re half-price.”

Their beers arrive and they sip, nodding along to the music.

“ _Now the sheriff wants some coffee and he tells the men to call him_  
_But they nod to each other that the killer got away_  
_And the sheriff he just glances- he knows they'll never answer_  
_Oh where is Colly Davis and his shallow mountain grave?”_

“This music is odd,” Cas remarks, and Dean laughs a genuine belly laugh, head thrown back and everything. “I like it, though,” Cas amends, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he shares in Dean’s amusement.

“Awesome, man, I’m glad,” Dean says, clapping Cas on the shoulder. The fallen angel looks— well, good, for lack of a better word. Dean hasn’t seen him human in almost two years, and while he appeared to be faring well enough last time, Dean had been too worried to really notice whether or not he was taking to humanity. But Cas has really assimilated in the months since his fall from grace. Charlie even took him shopping for new clothes. 

“Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I don’t know how to make a man look good,” she’d insisted, dragging Castiel up the stairs and out of the bunker. They’d come home with a maxed-out credit card and several heaping shopping bags full of clothes, shoes, and accessories. Dean casts his eyes over Cas now, and agrees that, yes, the girl does know how to dress a man. He quickly averts his gaze and takes a long gulp of his beer.

As the waiter brings their appetizers on a tray and arranges them around the table, the band switches over to a slow, sorrowful melody.

“ _Well I met her in Reno_  
_I guess it could have been Queens_  
_She looked a lot like a lady I’d heard of_  
_But I’d never seen.”_

Dean looks up from his potato skins to find that a tall, buxom woman decked out in western duds has approached the table, hand held out to Castiel in question. Cas looks confused.

“ _She had a smooth way of talking_  
_She made me feel right at home_  
_We’d stay up all night picking out sad songs_  
_On an old radio.”_

“She wants to dance, Cas,” Sam says, conspiratorial smile on his face. He and Cas share a look, and Cas laughs, knocking back the rest of his beer. Dean is suddenly transported back to a den of iniquity in Maine, five years ago. God, so much has changed since then. Cas grabs the woman’s hand and allows himself to be led to the dance floor, shooting a salute back over his shoulder at the Winchesters. Dean can’t help but marvel at how different the guy is from the dickbag angel that broke Dean’s ass out of hell. 

“ _I’m not really sure how it started_  
_Other things just stopped being fun_  
_But when I’m with you, the days aren’t so blue_  
_Baby I know you’re the one.”_

Dean watches as the woman guides Cas’ hand around her waist, settling it at the small of her back and taking the other in her own. He feels a burning ache right beneath his breastbone as the woman lays her other hand on Cas’ left shoulder and he lets her spin them in a smooth, slow circle. _This is good_ , Dean tells himself. Cas is finally getting to experience the better parts of humanity. The parts Dean’s been trying to show him ever since that night at the brothel. 

“ _Hit a rough patch in the ‘90s_  
_Started losing my steam_  
_Changed my name and my place and my number._  
_Couldn’t change what I’d seen.”_

Dean breaks his eyes away to check out the appetizer situation. He scoops a couple of onion rings into his mouth and studies some of the antique tin signs on the walls, the mason jar chandelier adorning the ceiling above their table. Looks around to some of the other dancing couples, not really taking anything in. Almost against his will, Dean’s gaze lands back on Cas, and the burning ache flares up again under his sternum. He paws at the spot with his knuckles.

“ _She had a smooth way of talking_  
_She made me feel right at home_  
_But when the day came to move on with my life,_  
_I left it alone.”_

Dean feels Sam’s eyes on the side of his face, so he downs the last dregs of his beer and turns his attention back to the food in front of him. “You got somethin’ to say?” he asks, keeping his eyes down. He can’t bring himself to sound intimidating. It comes out softer than he expected, even though he has to raise his voice above the music.

“ _I’m not really sure how it started_  
_Other things just stopped being fun_  
_But when I’m with you, the days aren’t so blue_  
_Baby I know you’re the one.”_

The song ends, and the dancers stop to applaud. Cas bows to the woman like a dork, kissing her hand. Sam lowers his voice as the clapping dies down. “I dunno, Dean. Do I _need_ to say it?”

They watch as Cas turns to head back to the table and the woman gives him a healthy slap on the ass. For a moment, Dean holds his breath, expecting lightning and the thunderous sound of shadowy wings unfurling. But Cas is human now, and apparently human Cas doesn’t mind getting slapped on the ass by chicks wearing pink raffia cowboy hats. He gets back to the table just as a new, fast-paced song begins and a complicated line dance starts up.

“Looks like you enjoyed yourself out there, huh?” Dean leans in to call over the music.

“Dancing is much more enjoyable than it appears,” Castiel says, popping a fried pickle in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I bet.” Dean eyes the pink-cowboy-hat woman out on the dance floor. She’s shooting looks in their direction. “She seemed to like you,” he observes off-handedly, picking up his beer bottle and awkwardly setting it back down when he remembers it’s empty.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees, looking back out at the dance floor. The moment he makes eye contact with the woman, she waves him over excitedly. “It appears that Candy wants us to join her.”

“Candy, huh?" Dean asks with a small shake of the head. "Well, go get ‘em, tiger,” Dean says, slapping Cas on the back.

Castiel slides off of his seat and pauses in front of Dean, hand outstretched in invitation.“Will you join me?” he asks. Dean realizes he picked up the gesture from the woman.

“Nah, man, I’m good. This is all you,” Dean insists with a smile. Cas deflates a little, but nods and drops his hand. Dean watches him join the line beside Candy. They spend the next few measures of the song staying put as the rest of the crowd goes in a circle one quarter-turn at a time. Castiel fumbles through the first few repetitions, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops as he attempts to match his feet to the steps. After a few more times, he picks up the turning bit. By the time the chorus rolls around again, he’s kicking up his feet and clapping right along with everyone else.

“ _We ain't got the money and the time it just ain't right_  
_To move up to them hills where everything's alright._  
_But I ain't sleepy darlin’ and there's ten more beers to pound,_  
_So sing me a song about Dixie.”_

“Wow. Quick learner,” Sam remarks, echoing Dean’s thoughts.

Cas looks away from the other dancers, continuing the steps with flawless precision, and waves excitedly at Dean and Sam. Before he performs the next quarter-turn away, he gestures for Dean to join them on the dance floor.

“I’m gonna…” Dean trails off, holding his empty beer bottle aloft and scooting sideways off of his stool. He scoops up the other empty bottles and beats a hasty retreat to the bar without looking back at Sam or Cas.

The bartender is a gorgeous girl of indeterminate race, with strong features and a wild mane of curly hair. She gives Dean a polite smile as he slides onto a stool, and he thinks, _this is the kind of girl I'm into_. But he doesn’t feel it tonight. Not really. He gives her the old Winchester charm, just the same.

“‘Nother round,” he says with a grin, plunking the empty El Sols down.

The woman huffs a little laugh, taking the bottles from the counter and tossing them into a garbage can behind her. “You know, the waiter could have refilled your drink orders,” she shoots over her shoulder as she turns to retrieve the new beers from the cooler.

Dean rests an elbow on the bar, turning to watch the dancers out on the floor. Cas' face is flushed and his hair is damp with sweat, and Dean suspects he’s swiped his hands through it once or twice. It’s sticking up in that casually disheveled way that it used to back when Castiel was little more than a wave of celestial intent in a Jimmy Novak meatsuit.

The nostalgia must show on his face when the bartender sets the three beers down at his elbow, because she clucks sympathetically. “You look like somebody stole your dance partner.” Dean drops a couple of bucks down on the bar and takes the beers without another word.

Cas breaks away from the dance floor as the song ends, reaching the table at the same time as Dean. He’s smiling a wide, toothy smile. It’s a good look on him, Dean decides, even with the flushed cheeks and messy hair. He looks vital. _Human_. He breathes heavily through a long sip on the beer that Dean puts in front of him.

“You’re amazing, Cas,” Sam remarks.

“Thank you,” Castiel replies, still attempting to catch his breath. “That was… extremely complicated.”

“Well, looks like your new friend helped you through it,” Dean says, trying to keep his voice light, but probably failing if Sam’s face is anything to go by. “You, uh. You gonna, you know,” Dean makes a noncommittal hand gesture, somewhere between a wave and a sweeping motion. Sam rolls his eyes.

“I might dance with her again, if there’s another slow song,” Cas breathes. He selects an onion ring and starts to pull the breading off.

Dean nods into his beer.

“But,” Cas continues, “if you’re insinuating whether or not I’m going to ‘seal the deal,’ the answer is no.” He uses air quotes to emphasize his point, then pops the naked onion into his mouth.

Dean coughs as beer goes down the wrong pipe. Sam just laughs.

“Why, uh,” Dean sputters, smacking himself in the chest. “Why not?”

Cas looks to Sam and then back at his plate. “Let’s just say she’s not exactly my type,” he says. Sam snorts.

Dean looks back and forth between them, and then over his shoulder at the crowd, searching for the pink cowboy hat. He finds Candy boot-scooting around in a circle with two other women, tight shirt barely containing her chest. “Am I missin’ something?” Dean asks, turning back to the table. “Pretty sure she’s everyone’s type.”

“What _is_ your type, Cas?” Sam asks with genuine interest. They share a private smile, and Dean narrows his eyes at them.

“Well, generally,” Cas says, pausing to take a swig of his beer, “my type is male.”

Dean chokes on air, wondering if he heard Cas correctly over the loud music. Cas just gets to work picking apart another onion ring as if he didn’t just drop a bombshell.

“That’s really interesting,” Sam remarks, falling easily into the supportive friend role. “Have you always known, or did you just recently figure that out?”

“Wait,” Dean interrupts, stupidly. “You’re _gay_?” 

Sam gives him _the look_. Cas carefully wipes his mouth with a napkin and folds it up neatly into a small square. “I had a very enlightening conversation with Charlie about human sexuality. Since I am human now, I thought it might be nice to explore that aspect of myself. I believe the term we agreed upon was ‘demisexual, homoromantic,’ meaning I only form sexual attractions to people with whom I first develop a strong romantic attraction, and I seem to form romantic attractions to the male gender. But yes, if it’s easier for you, I think _gay_ is an acceptable term.”

A moment passes where the lively music fills the gaping silence between them, and Dean sits with his mouth slightly open in confusion. Cas turns a little in his seat to look at him, lifting his beer to take a sip. It’s almost a challenge.

“What about… what’s her name?” Dean flounders, snapping his fingers. “The reaper?”

“April,” Castiel says, and Dean remembers now. _April_. They had a discussion about her the last time the three of them were out at a bar, too.

“Yeah, what about _that_?” Dean asks. His words come out a little more accusingly than he’d intended.

“Do you mean, why was my first sexual encounter with a female?” At Dean’s uncertain shrug, Castiel continues. “That’s hard to explain.” He hesitates, chewing on another onion ring. “Out of all of the human bodily systems, the endocrine has been the hardest to become acclimated to. I suppose you could equate it to what happens to young males when their testicles descend?”

Sam turns a laugh into a cough, recovering quickly to nod along in an encouraging way. “Yeah, that makes sense,” he says. “You’re new to all of these feelings and sensations, you’ve got testosterone affecting you for the first time...”

“Exactly,” Castiel agrees.

“I mean, think about it, Dean,” Sam continues. “You have no idea what you want when you’re going through puberty. You just know you want _something_. I’m sure you probably wouldn’t want a repeat performance of _your_ first time.”

Dean thinks back to a scratchy grey blanket hastily thrown over an air mattress in a basement, the feel of sticky lip gloss against his mouth, limp blonde hair on his face. _No_. Sam’s right. If he could go back in time, it’d be different. He’s not even into blondes anymore. 

_Still_.

Cas is gay. _Cas is gay_?

The pretty curly-haired singer is crooning another slow song in the background, and Cas turns to look out at the swaying couples on the floor. Dean realizes he hasn’t responded, so he just nods at Sam and fails at his attempts to look anywhere but at the back of Cas’ head.

“ _Cause I don't know what I am doing,_  
_And I don't know what it takes_  
_I may love you till my heart goes cold,_  
_But I won't love you till it breaks.”_

Castiel turns back slowly in his seat, facing Dean head-on. “Would you like to dance?” he asks. 

Dean swallows hard, looking from Cas to Sam and back again. The moment goes on too long. Cas’ face pinches a little in disappointment. “I don’t-” Dean begins, but Cas stops him by holding up a hand.

“No, it’s alright,” he says, and slides off of his stool. “I’ll dance with Candy.”

“ _Now this room keeps getting smaller and it's raining hard outside_  
_I'm running out of reasons here to stay._  
_I know I might be leaving but I'm dying here inside,_  
_and you weren't here to tell me that's okay.”_

Dean watches him go, feeling that familiar ache in his chest. It’s been amplified tenfold. He realizes, then, what that pain is.

“ _Cause I don't know what I am doing,_  
_And I don't know what it takes_  
_I may love you till my heart goes cold,_  
_But I won't love you till it breaks.”_

Sam turns to him with a huff, jaw clenched tightly, but Dean is ready with a retort. “What do you want me to do, Sam?” he asks, leaning in close so he doesn’t have to shout over the music. “He drops that on us and then _asks me to dance_?” 

“Look,” Sam leans in too, voice a little more controlled than Dean’s own. “It may not have seemed like it, but that was really fucking hard for him to tell you. He’s been worried about it for weeks.”

Dean sits back in his stool, brow furrowed in confusion. “Wait, _what_? You already knew?”

Sam does that guilty thing with his nose, looking down at his beer. He breathes out a long, slow breath. “There’s one last thing we haven’t told you,” he says.

Dean throws his hands up. “Great! More lies! I thought we were done with that shit, Sammy,” he accuses, hunching forward into Sam’s space again.

“We didn’t-” Sam begins with a shout, and then reins himself in, lowering his voice. “We didn’t _lie_ to you this time. We just... didn’t tell you everything.”

Dean runs a hand over his face and hangs his head. “Alright,” he sighs. “But I swear to God, Sam-”

“This is it,” Sam assures him. “This is the last thing we haven’t told you.”

Dean takes a long swig of his beer and looks out at the dance floor, finding Cas taking turns dancing with Candy and her two friends. “What is it?” he asks, dragging his eyes away.

“You remember what we told you about the three ingredients for the cure?”

Dean thinks back to what they told him about that night. The spell to cure the Mark had called for something made by God but forbidden to man, something made by man but forbidden by God, and a third ingredient that had taken some interpreting. The first two ingredients had been easy to figure out and simple enough to track down, thanks to Crowley. The withered husk of the forbidden fruit and a fractured piece of the golden calf had been tossed into the bowl at Rowena’s request. 

Dean’s been hazy on the details of the remainder of the spellwork, because none of the others seemed to be able to agree. At first, Sam told him that the third ingredient had to be something vital to the caster, and because of that, Rowena refused to cast the spell. But Cas later explained that he’d given his grace over because the spell called for something pure enough to counteract the evil of the Mark. Crowley still maintains that the only reason they needed Cas’ grace at all is because they didn’t have any better ideas.

Dean squints, replying, “Kind of? I mean, I remember what you said about the first two ingredients. No one ever gave me a straight answer about the third.”

Sam drains the rest of his beer and begins, “Yeah, about that.”

\--

Three months ago

"Sumsu mimma ezebu ilu ma ikkibu Lu," Rowena read. "Something made by God, but forbidden to man." 

“Forbidden?” Sam asked, narrowing his eyes in thought. 

“The forbidden fruit?” Castiel suggested, and Sam scoffed. 

“No,” he said, looking between the other three incredulously. “The _actual apple_ is the first ingredient?” 

“Well, for starters,” Crowley interjected, “it's a Quince, you dummy, not an apple.” Sam shot him a look, and Crowley threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Just sayin’.”

"Sumsu mimma ezebu Lu," Rowena read on, ignoring them. 

“Okay, uh, what's next?” Sam asked her. 

"Something made by man, but forbidden by God." 

“Okay, well, God forbade false idols, right?” Sam suggested, looking to Castiel for support. 

“The Golden Calf,” Cas confirmed. 

Sam’s frustration grew even more plain on his face. “Wasn't that destroyed?”

Crowley waved a hand at Castiel’s sympathetic nod. “Not entirely,” he said, grinning at the confused look on the angel’s face. “What? We had to have some sort of bargaining chip against daddy dearest.”

"Sumsu mimma sen arramu," Rowena continued. 

“What's the third ingredient?” Sam asked, but Rowena looked hesitant to reply.

“Oh,” she said. 

Sam clenched his jaw. “ _What_.” 

“The third ingredient, it's impossible,” Rowena threw her hands up in frustration. 

“What is it?” Sam prompted, keeping his tone even. 

“Loosely translated… my heart.”

Crowley snorted.

“It's not impossible at all,” Castiel said, looking ready to carve the organ out with his own blade. 

“Not my _literal_ heart, feathers,” Rowena sighed. “Something I love- the spell calls for me to kill it.” 

“A sacrifice,” Sam said, his eyes far away. 

“Precisely,” Rowena said. ”The book will grant freedom from the curse, but it wants something in return.” 

“Well, then give it,” Sam prompted. 

“Bring me something I love, I'll kill it! I want my freedom too much to make a fuss over that,” she ranted. “The… the problem is, I don't love anything.”

An awkward silence ensued, wherein two sets of eyes fell on Crowley, and the other two sets of eyes determinedly fell anywhere but on each other.

“What about Crowley?” Cas finally asked, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Happy to kill him,” Rowena said, ignoring her son’s presence off to her left. “Let’s not call it love.”

“Well, mother,” Crowley said, examining his fingernails. “The feeling’s mutual.”

“Can we figure this out?” Sam snapped, bringing the others to a hushed stillness.

A moment passed before anyone spoke. Finally, Castiel broke the silence. “What does the spell say, exactly?”

Rowena bent over the book again, running a perfectly manicured finger over the hieroglyphs. "Sumsu mimma sen arramu," she repeated. “My heart.”

“Hypothetically speaking,” Castiel said, approaching the table and giving the book an appraising look, “if the caster were to sacrifice him or herself out of love, would that work?”

Rowena gave him a disgusted look. “Look, the boy may be pretty to look at, but there’s no way in my son’s kingdom that I’d-”

“Not you,” Cas interrupted. “If… someone else cast the spell. Could they then sacrifice themselves out of love?”

Crowley snorted, the sound dissonant with the somber mood in the room. “ _I knew it_. You really _are_ gay for the pretty boy hunter.”

Cas shot him a murderous look, and Rowena scoffed.

“Oh, please, Fergus,” she said, tossing her hair. “As if you’re _not_.”

“First of all,” Crowley began, holding a finger in the air, but Sam cut him off.

“Cas,” he said, stepping forward. A horribly pained look had come over his face. Cas held a hand up to him, stopping him in his tracks.

“Rowena,” Castiel prompted the witch, piercing eyes stern.

Rowena turned away from her son and ran her fingers over the spell once more, lips moving silently. After a moment, she returned Castiel’s gaze. “I don’t see why not,” she told him. “The spell calls for a sacrifice of the heart. I don’t think it matters if you kill the one you love or if _you_ kill _yourself in the name of_ love.”

“Cas, no,” Sam barked, stepping forward and turning the angel forcibly with a hand to the upper arm.

But Castiel had a peaceful look on his face. He placed a hand over Sam’s, squeezing in reassurance. “It’ll be alright, Sam,” he said. ”I’ll be fine.”

He pulled the angel blade out of his sleeve and handed it to Sam, hilt first.

 

\--

Sam finishes recounting the story, and Dean sits back on his stool, feeling the breath rush out of his body like a punch to the gut.

Cas loves him? _Cas loves him_.

“ _What the fuck_.” Dean mutters, running both hands over his face. ”He fucking…” He trails off, casting around in search of Cas. He's doing shots at the bar with Candy and her friends.

“ _Son of a bitch_ ,” Dean says under his breath. His airways feel hot and constricted, like he’s been standing in a sauna for too long.

“Dean.” Sam leans in over the table, looking ready to either fight or pick up the pieces. “You weren’t mad when you thought he sacrificed his grace out of necessity, so-”

“Yes I fuckin’ _was_ , Sammy!” Dean shouts. It’s true— he’d had a self-effacing meltdown after learning that Cas was human, only relenting after Charlie had asked, “What would you have done if the situation were reversed?”— but knowing that Castiel sacrificed his grace out of _love_ makes it even worse, somehow.

“But that’s not even- it’s not- that’s not the point,” Dean rambles. “ _Goddamnit_.” He watches as Cas and the three women return to the dance floor. Castiel has an exceptionally low alcohol tolerance now that he’s human. It shows in his loose movements. Dean thinks it’s fucking adorable, and it hurts.

“There’s _so much_...” he begins, more to himself than Sam. “Do you have any idea how long…? I just. _Fuck_.”

“Dude,” Sam leans down again, trying to catch Dean’s eye. “I’m pretty sure I know exactly how long. Don’t tell me. Tell _him_.” He cocks his head in Castiel’s direction.

Dean ignores the heat in his cheeks at his brother’s perceptiveness, downing the rest of his beer in one long gulp. He takes Cas’ half-full bottle and drains it, too. Sam reaches over the table to clap him on the shoulder, smiling in that infuriatingly sincere way that only he can. This time, though, Dean appreciates it. 

“Thanks," Dean hesitates, fidgeting. "You know. Because we’re being honest and communicative and shit.” He gets up from the table, and Sam salutes him with his beer.

Dean waits out the rest of the song before approaching Cas. The applause from the crowd is loud enough that he has to tilt his head into Cas’ personal space to be heard. “Can we talk outside for a minute?”

“I think I’d prefer to stay here,” Cas replies, clapping along with the rest of the crowd. “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of Candy, too.” 

Dean notices that the woman is only a few steps away, looming over them aggressively as the rest of the crowd begins swaying to a slow song. He narrows his eyes at her and turns back to Cas, growling in frustration. “Cas, Sam told me about the cure.”

Castiel stills until he and Dean are the only stationary posts in the sea of moving bodies. “He told you… what?” Cas asks, and his expression is carefully neutral. Dean thinks, distantly, that maybe he’s not as drunk as he appeared a moment ago.

He leans into Cas’ space again, speaking directly into his ear. “He _told_ me.”

Castiel pulls away, studying Dean’s face. Probably searching for anger or disgust that isn’t there. Dean just feels tired. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you say something before, Cas?” he says, loud enough to be heard over the music.

“We thought it was for the best,” Sam replies, suddenly there at Dean’s shoulder.

“ _Honesty_ , Sam,” Cas chides, and Sam looks sheepish. “ _I_ thought it was for the best. Sam wanted to tell you, but I asked him not to.”

“Sorry,” Sam says to Cas, but Cas waves him off.

“No, I need to be honest, too,” he mutters, low enough that Dean can barely hear it over the mournful crooning coming from the stage.

“ _So please love me, my little devil_  
_And I’ll make you see_  
_That I know you’ve got a lot of souls notched on your bedpost_  
_But I don’t mind, ‘cause so do I.”_

Castiel takes a deep breath, in and out, and steps up next to Dean. He lays a hand on his left shoulder, looking into Dean's eyes with that intensity that makes Dean nervous and excited all at once. “I have loved you since the very moment this mark was seared into your skin.” He emphasizes his words with a little squeeze of his hand. Dean shivers.

“Cas,” he breathes, disbelieving. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do,” Castiel insists. His voice is commanding and powerful, and it reminds Dean of the day that they met, of an abandoned barn in Illinois, of sparks flying and wings spreading.

“Fuck,” Dean bites out. The pain is back again, right there under his ribs, but it’s different now. More of an itch that would be _so easy_ to scratch. 

“I uh,” he begins. _Honesty_ , he tells himself. _Communication_. They’ve wasted so much fucking time already.

“ _But it's been years since I've felt so free_  
_And no one's here to cast a judge on me_  
_So I'll be begging on my knees to my own Mephistopheles_  
_If you're so bad, then what does that make me?”_

Dean breathes out his worry. Leans in, speaking softly into Cas’ ear. “I love you too, Cas. Always have.”

“ _So please love me, my little devil_  
_And I’ll make you see_  
_That I know you’ve got a lot of souls notched on your bedpost_  
_But I don’t mind, ‘cause so do I.”_

Cas pulls back again, but this time only far enough to look Dean in the eyes. His wonder is clear on his face. Dean nods once, earnestly. He might not be great at this whole communication thing, but he hopes the gesture will be enough.

"Does that mean you'll dance with me?" Cas asks with a quirked brow. He extends a hand again in invitation.

Dean finds himself laughing, but still has to take a moment to marvel at Castiel's patience, his determination, his willingness to wait for him in every way imaginable. The same qualities Dean's loved in him for years, finally put into context. 

"Cas, man," Dean begins, and the epithet already sounds too forced, too platonic. "We're in a red state."

Sam groans somewhere off to his side, but Dean ignores him. "Don't get me wrong, I'd love to dance with you. Been wantin' to make you happy all night," he admits. "But I don't feel like getting lynched today."

"Dean," Sam says.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean." Castiel's breath is hot on Dean's neck.

"It means," Dean says, ignoring the tingle running down his spine, "we're in Georgia, and people around these parts ain't gonna take too kindly to two men dancing together."

" _Dean_ ," Sam repeats, grabbing Dean's bicep, but Dean pulls his arm away, ignoring him.

"I... don't think that will be a problem," Cas says. There's a laugh in his voice. It seems out of place. 

Dean furrows his brow, finally relenting when Sam says his name a third time. " _What_ , Sammy?"

Sam's expression is equal parts amusement and incredulity. " _God_ , you’re oblivious sometimes," he says to Dean. "If you'd just take your eyes off of Cas for _five seconds_ , maybe you'd get the picture."

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" Dean asks, wheeling around to survey the crowd, and-

_Oh._

All around them are pairs of dancing couples. Dean notices, for the first time, that the majority of them are same-sex. 

"The fuck?" Dean turns back around to two equally amused faces. "Seriously," he asks Sam, "what the fuck?"

"So, in the spirit of honesty and being more communicative and shit," Sam quotes, "I have to admit that I may or may not have brought us to a gay bar."

Dean squints at his brother, turning in place to survey the room again, and _holy shit_ , he's right. _They're in a goddamned gay bar_. How the fuck did he miss it?

Sam seems to register his confusion. "Like I said. You've been too busy staring at Cas all night to notice anything else."

Dean can see Cas’ wide smile in his periphery, so he rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. You're a fuckin' genius, you know goddamn everything. Now, if you’ll excuse us." He grabs Cas' hand and pulls him away from Sam, moving closer to the stage. 

Dean wonders at how much his life has changed as he snakes an uncertain arm around Castiel's waist and pulls him close. Can’t help but imagine what he would have thought about this even a year ago. For a brief moment, he worries what his dad would have said if he were alive. But then Cas beams at him, and it's worth it. It's all worth it.

The song ends just as they begin to sway, but the blonde singer looks right at Dean as the crowd applauds. She winks, then, right at him. " _Before the earth was created, and there were no living things,_ " she begins singing. The band catches up to her after a beat. " _There were particles spinnin' in air. There must have been one for you, and been one for me, 'cause I knew you before we were even there_."

It's another slow song. Dean knows it's just for them. Cas hooks his chin over Dean's shoulder, and Dean melts into the feeling of their bodies pressed close. It's not the first time Dean has held Cas in his arms, but it's by far the best.

"You love me," Castiel whispers. Dean huffs a little laugh, wondering if he was meant to hear it.

"Always have," Dean reassures him. "Sorry I've been too much of a fuckin' coward to admit it." He feels Cas' head shake on his shoulder.

"We were both cowards," Castiel says.

"Couple'a dumbasses," Dean mutters. They laugh together. Dean loves the rumble of it- can feel the vibrations where their chests are pressed together.

"Indeed," Cas whispers after a moment. Dean leans his head against Castiel's and closes his eyes.

"Fuckin' finally," a female voice hoots, startling them both out of their peaceful moment. Candy and her friends are there, gathered around Dean and Cas.

"Um," Dean says.

"Cas here's been tryin'a get you to dance all night!" One of the women exclaims.

"Thought it might make you jealous if we danced together a few times, and _hee-ew!_ " Candy slaps Dean on the back. "I thought you were liable to kick my ass, the way you were lookin' at me."

"Wait," Dean flounders, narrowing his eyes at each of the three women in turn, and then turning his attention back to Cas, who just shrugs.

"Well, get on with it," Candy insists, swatting Dean with her pink cowboy hat. After a moment, she places it snugly on his head. Cas has the decency not to laugh too much.

"I'm gonna fuckin' kill Sammy," Dean mutters.

Cas swipes the hat off of Dean's head and flips it onto his own before wrapping an arm around Dean's waist and taking the lead. "No you won't," he says with a smirk.

" _In the years that passed between you and me,_  
_There was a plan that was perfectly set_  
_So on the day that I met you, no stranger I'd see,_  
_'Cause I knew you before we'd even met."_

_No_. He won't.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, HUGE thanks to Becca and all of my GISH teammates and the memebers of the ECKC for their encouragement and advice. 
> 
> The band in this fic is real! They're called The Whiskey Gentry, and they're an amazing cowpunk band out of Atlanta. Give 'em a listen! They just so happen to have a whole arsenal of fantastic Destiel songs. 
> 
> The soundtrack to this fic is as follows. All songs can be found on [The Whiskey Gentry's website](http://thewhiskeygentry.com/discography).
> 
> 1\. Colly Davis  
> 2\. Reno  
> 3\. Dixie  
> 4\. Until It Breaks  
> 5\. Four Horsemen  
> 6\. Particles
> 
> Look out for a (hopefully much shorter) timestamp coming your way in the near future! As always, I sincerely hope you enjoyed! Come find me on [tumblr](http://Glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com) and say hey. No really. Do it.


End file.
